Transport
by NightShade Tears
Summary: "The pressure of being trapped and outnumbered would push the young criminal into surrender. At least, Sherlock thought it would." Sad Johnlock. Rated T for violence and death(s).
1. Chapter 1

**May or may not change the title later on. As always, I own nothing.**

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A week-long chase had culminated here, in a labyrinth-like warehouse in the heart of industrial London town. John Watson picked his way through the cold corridors in silence, as did three other people in other parts of the building, blocking every possible exit route for this case's prey. The young man that had killed five girls over the past week had realized the coppers were on his tail; since flight was impossible, he had turned to hiding. It took the group less than an hour to pinpoint the hideout, thanks to the brilliancy of their tallest team member, but getting the suspect out of it was the tricky part. The warehouse was enormous, had four possible exits, thousands of hiding spots, and a very dangerous, very scared, possibly armed teenager captured inside. Donovan –whatever the woman might be, she was brave-, Lestrade, John and Sherlock would have to be very careful with this volatile criminal. Especially Sherlock.

_Oh, God, Sherlock_, pleaded John in a thought aimed at the impatient detective. _Just this once, please…_

John could hear the others' footsteps echoing through distant tunnels, carried to his battlefield-trained ears by the same cold air that turned his breath white. As soon as this case was over, John decided, he would indulge in a long bath and a large mug of special blend tea. But the criminal's capture was still a faraway event, so he pushed the thought of comfort aside and focused on the plan.

In exactly three minutes, he was to make as much noise as possible, to scare the murderous teenager to the center chamber of the warehouse, where the four main corridors interloped. Lestrade, Donovan, and Sherlock would be covering the other exits, and the pressure of being trapped and outnumbered would push the young criminal into surrender. At least, Sherlock thought it would. John hoped his flatmate was right.

The three minutes were over. John inched his way down the corridor a bit more, closer to where the teenager was crouching, unaware of John's presence behind him. Sherlock had sent John to cover that tunnel because of his soldier skills, no doubt. The boy needed to feel that something was not letting him return from whence he entered, but it had to be something invisible and silent enough that the boy wouldn't shoot. John couldn't tell if he was annoyed or flattered that Sherlock considered him well-versed in the art of being a ghost.

John grabbed a handful of screws he had collected along the tunnel and tossed them at a pipe. He saw the figure of the boy jump at the clattering, and as the shadow scurried away, John couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the lad. So young, so scared…

"Drop the weapon, son," he heard Lestrade say a few yards down and around a corner. John hurried to take his spot.

"It's over," Donovan added, her gun clicking. The boy's nervous breaths were the only things to break the silence… no, there was something else: a flurry of running shoes and a fluttering coat. For some reason, Sherlock had not made it to his position in time, and was now running towards the chamber, towards a cornered, armed teenager.

John didn't have to be an expert at deduction to know what would happen next. The boy would not return through John's tunnel, nor would he face the solid barriers of Lestrade and Donovan's presence. Cornered like a rat, he would dash to the only remaining option, and like a cornered rat, he would tear through any obstacle in his path. Sherlock may or may not be in place, may or may not have his gun ready, may or may not get shot at, may or may not get hurt. Or worse, killed.

It was a chance John would not take. He sprinted the final stretch, hoping that for once he could out-stride his long-legged friend, and rounded the corner. John heard Sherlock before he saw him. So did the teenager. He began aiming at the tunnel where Sherlock would appear in an instant. Donovan and Lestrade gave their second warning, and it sounded slow and hazy in John's adrenaline-filled mind.

"Oi!" he yelled. His voice pierced through the slow motion spell that had taken over the room. Everything else happened very quickly.

The boy turned the gun on him. The trigger was squeezed. An explosion deafened him. His chest caught fire. His legs gave underneath him. And in the tunnel opposite to him, Sherlock's horrified face appeared.

"John!" Sherlock screamed over the twin explosions of Donovan and Lestrade's guns going off, bringing down the suspect a second too late. The deed was done, John realized, gasping wetly through the blood that was suddenly everywhere. He was going to die. _Oh, God, please let me live._

"John!" he heard again, closer this time, and he cried out in pain as a pair of long arms jostled him into an embrace. John's eyes struggled to focus on the figure looming over him, and then suddenly, he felt peace. He had saved Sherlock, Sherlock had not been shot, Sherlock was alive. He arranged his lips into a grin that he hoped didn't look like a grimace.

"Sh-Sherlock," he managed, his lungs burning with the effort of two syllables. He closed his eyes against the pain.

"No, John. Look at me. Look at me, John!" Sherlock ordered, one arm leaving John's shoulders to undo his own scarf and press it against the wound. It was close to John's heart, much too close, and the paramedics would take ages to get here. _Oh, no. Please, please no, _Sherlock thought, trying to hold down the dreadful sentiment clawing at his eyes to reach his first aid knowledge. He couldn't, though, and he snarled at himself in frustration.

"Sherlock," John breathed, his eyes drooping by the millisecond. He wanted to rest; oh, God, he wanted to sleep in Sherlock's arms forever, but not while the tall man was so distraught. John's doctor side kicked in. He had to comfort Sherlock. Sherlock caught John's hand and directed it to his cheek, holding it there. It was cold, too cold, but surprisingly steady. The one trembling –fear, anger, impotence- was the detective himself.

"It's okay," John said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Of course it's okay, John," Sherlock replied, nodding against John's hand as if rubbing in the lie to make it true. "You're going to be okay, and we're going to go home, and you can have a cup of that special blend you like so much. In the bath tub. How does that sound, eh?"

John chuckled, remembering his thoughts from only minutes ago. Already it seemed like a lifetime, his lifetime.

"You… mind reader," he whispered in awe. Sherlock caught the tone and smirked briefly, trying to fight back the tears that were attempting to steal the precious sight of John's face. If the hot trails coating Sherlock's cheeks were any indication, he was desperately losing the fight.

John's thumb wiped away one of Sherlock's tears.

"Sherlock," he muttered, his voice, eyes, and life slipping closed. He exhaled, and his hand gave one final, feeble flicker under Sherlock's. He was still after that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Short chapter, but I can't fit it into the next and I couldn't fit it into the prior.**

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There were many things Sherlock wanted to do right there and then, things he couldn't do lest Donovan tag him further as a freak. He wanted to scream, to pull his hair out, to mangle the now dead body of John's murderer beyond the point of recognition, even to try and kiss the life back into John. But he knew the good doctor was beyond the help of CPR, and any of the other activities would be a disgrace to John's memory –not to mention they'd end in Lestrade restraining him- so he settled for a kiss, lips pressed into John's palm for a long second before he respectfully set his friend down. He stood up, sniffed, and dusted off his trousers. Not that they weren't already past saving, covered in John's blood and whatnot, but still.

"Will you need a declaration, Lestrade?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and level, his back turned to the policeman.

"Sherlock…" the inspector started hesitantly.

"Will you?" Sherlock repeated, much louder and on the brink of breaking.

"No. No, I saw what happened," Lestrade replied after a long pause.

"Good," Sherlock murmured. He turned, his face more stoic than ever, lips pressed into a thin line, the salt trails on his pale cheeks the only evidence of his weeping. "Don't you dare leave him," he told Lestrade in a tone that most would've considered demanding, but which the inspector recognized as pleading.

"I won't," Lestrade answered. Sherlock walked briskly out of the chamber, heading for the East exit, the one where he should've been at when…

Sherlock shook his head. No point dwelling in the past, but the past wanted to be dwelled in, assaulting Sherlock with all that he could have done. He could have ran a little faster, could've studied the warehouse plans previously so as to not get lost, could've tricked the criminal into emptying his gun prior to cornering him… but he hadn't, and because of all his mistakes, John Hamish Watson would soon have a place in Molly's list at St. Bart's morgue. John would never move again, never type up another blog entry, never bicker with Sherlock or call him "amazing". The prospective emptiness of his situation hit Sherlock hard, and soon the detective was struggling to send enough oxygen to his body.

Transport, it was all transport, and he hated the weakness of it as shock forced the scarce contents of his stomach out unto the grass outside the warehouse. He fumbled forward a few more steps before collapsing, clutching at dry weeds as much as he clutched at his sanity, his self-control.

"John, John," he repeated over and over, vaguely aware of Donovan directing the paramedics to him, the ambulance ride to 221B Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson taking him upstairs while Lestrade explained what had happened and how she should just let Sherlock sleep it off. Sherlock lost his voice halfway up the stairs, but he kept mouthing that one word until, at last, his mind decided it was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock woke a few hours later, his body used to recovering within little resting time. His mind was a different story. For the first time since those dark years of drug addiction, he woke with a fuzzy, slow mind that couldn't form a single coherent thought. He remembered yesterday's events, but they were hay, like memories he had deleted from his mind palace and then attempted to bring back. It came to him slowly, excruciatingly so, but it returned at last.

John was dead. Fact, checked and unchangeable.

It was pretty much Sherlock's own fault. Fact. No use trying to pin the blame on someone else. He didn't want to, either.

There was pain in his heart, a heavy throbbing sensation that peaked with every breath he could take that John couldn't. He was briefly amazed at the fact that the transport was capable of such a complex reaction like heartbreak.

Transport, it was all transport, and now he realized that the transport had so far worked well taking him on the journey of life, a journey that had always been destined for John. It was always him, always had been, and John had had to die for Sherlock to understand it. So much for being a genius.

Sherlock cleaned up the apartment in an unthinking gaze. He maybe should've left a note, but he found that now –when he most needed them- words would simply not come to him. So he hoped Mrs. Hudson would understand the flat's tidiness for what it was meant to be: an expression of gratitude, as well as an apology.

He grabbed the exact amount of money he would need to reach his destination. He didn't want the Yard to waste resources following a non-conclusive lead just because of some spare coins. Then again, he probably should leave some change in his pockets to assure everyone that he had not been another mugging-gone-wrong victim. The three coins he tossed into his pocket weighed much more than they should.

He took the underground. There were no cabs in sight at this time of night, and knowing Mycroft, he would know all about the ordeal by now and send one of his special cabs over. So he rode the train along with an elderly woman and a blind man with a dog, each lost inside their own turmoil. Sherlock would've deduced what troubled them, but he didn't feel like invading their privacy. So they rode in silence, and in silence they departed when Sherlock got off the train.

The scent of the river hit him as soon as he left the underground station. The cold air bit at his cheeks, and he flipped up the collar of his coat. He almost expected to hear John chastising him for doing it, claiming that it was too "mysterious", but he knew it wouldn't happen. He wouldn't be here if there was the slightest chance of it happening.

The bridge raised itself majestically about ten feet above the river, enough to kill him on impact. He stood on the edge, taking slow breaths to calm himself down. He wasn't scared, but the transport was, and if there was minimal chance of surviving thanks to an adrenaline rush, he wasn't going to take it.

"Hey, freak!" he heard Donovan call behind him. He didn't even bother to turn around.

"Did Lestrade put me on death watch?" Sherlock asked flatly.

"Your brother, actually," the other answered. "He wants me to ask you whether there is the slightest chance you will change your mind about this."

"Changing my mind won't bring John back," Sherlock reasoned.

"Neither will killing yourself," she countered.

"No… but it will take me to him," he replied, just a hint of doubt in his voice.

"You think so?" Donovan challenged. Sherlock turned to face her.

"What else can I do but hope? I couldn't possibly keep on living without John. It hurts too much. It hurt before I met him, but I was distracted by the work so I didn't feel it. Now that the work has taken John away, what choice do I have but to follow him?"

Donovan remained silent, seeing the honesty and the grief behind the detective's cold grey eyes. "Solving cases without you might be difficult," she said at last.

"You'll manage," he told her, turning again. The river's black surface called to him. "I've calculated the tides at this time of year. My body should wash up about two miles down from here…"

"And you want me to ensure none of the other guys at the station defiles it?" she asked. Sherlock huffed out a half-annoyed, half-amused snort.

"You know where John will be buried," he said. It was not even a question.

"Yes."

"Then you hardly need to be a genius to know that…"

"That you want to be laid to rest next to him," Donovan interrupted. Sherlock nodded once. "I'll tell your brother what you want. I'm sure he can arrange it."

"Good," the detective replied. "And… Donovan… thank you."

Donovan half-smiled. It was the first time she heard the freak thanking anyone in complete honesty. "Don't mention it. Good luck, Sherlock."

She left to give the detective some privacy. She hadn't taken five steps when she heard the tell-tale splash that signalled the world's only consulting detective departure to reunite with his doctor.


End file.
